


Salt of the Earth

by EjBlaKit



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Backwater World, Kylux - Freeform, M/M, New Lives, Post-post TFA, The Beginning of the End
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 21:57:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8344318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EjBlaKit/pseuds/EjBlaKit
Summary: Stars have collapsed and lives have ended. Battles and memories lost to time. War leaves broken men and scars too deep to repair.A farmer's life is interrupted by a ghost from his past.





	

Earth fell through his fingers in thick clumps, congealed with the previous night’s falls. It would be a good harvest this time, enough to keep him going for a few months with fresh food. He’d get a good price too, for the excess vegetables. Enough for good fertiliser and perhaps new boots. He wriggled his toes, watching as a worm twisted away from him, slippery and pink against the dark soil. Anything that would minimise his trips into the outpost was a good thing.

He tilted his head back and squinted up into the crisp blue sky, streaked pale with vapour trails and partially bleached by the white-gold of the sun. A light breeze tugged at his torn pants, refreshing against the beads of sweat on his bare arms and stained tank. It was a good day to be out, early yet as the bite in the ray's hadn’t quite begun. Soon he’d be retreating back under the lean-to, created from the trees he’d had to clear to create his three plots. 

It was a simple life, a hard life, yet rewarding. 

Wending through the small trenches of green and budding flowers, he checked for insects or damage, casting a critical eye over his crops. At the end of the tilled land a creek bubbled, large river stones smooth and slowly warming with the day's climbing heat. Perhaps he would need to hold off on new boots and purchase shade cloths instead, to protect his investment.

The water was cool, lapping at his ankles as he followed the current up to where the rocks dropped away into a small pool of greenish-brown water. The rest of the watercourse was concealed by the scrub, swallowed by the wilderness. He tugged several strings toward him, untangling them from anchors he’d made along the shore, pulling up traps he’d set in the grey of dawn. Within one trap were two crustaceans and in a second was a decent sized fish. The remaining two were empty, so he let them sink back into the relatively clear depths. 

The bubble of the creek was soothing, playing rhythm to the melody of the birdlife hidden within the voluminous trees about his hut. He whistled a few of the calls back to them, earning him silence and then a cautious reply, a flutter of wings, a burst of dazzling pink and orange and green as fifteen large, feathered creatures burst from high foliage and soared up into the strong currents far above.

Idyllic.

Peaceful.

Quiet.

He almost sighed at the coolness of his shack as he stepped into the shadowy confines, pausing to place his catch on the table before peeling back the curtains and pushing open the shutters. The breeze would help keep the heat down, the air circulating. He’d need it with the stew he was about to cook to sustain him over the next few days until his vegetables ripened completely. 

As he gutted and cleaned, spilling blood and gore into a bucket for later use, he found himself flashing back to other days. It happened less often now, was far more manageable. No longer was he a sweating mess of panted breaths and trembling limbs. The scent of plasma in his nose was strong, the feel of it burning through his skin still present, a visceral reaction to an ancient injury. Stray bolts of enemy fire. But he could function through it, knife still raking along scales, fingers still peeling out bones before dicing big chunks of fresh flesh. Perhaps when the season of growth was fully upon him he would take a shot at hunting. For quite a few years he had put it off, resigned to the astronomical market prices to procure the necessary sustenance. There was no doubt he would dream sickly after the death, after draining and skinning the creature, but he could trade parts, cure the meat, live for a long time on a good specimen. The nightmares would be worth it. The nausea, the flashbacks. It would benefit him in the long run.

The stew bubbled in a blackened pot over an open fire for most of the day, overheating the small room, despite the door and windows being thrown wide open. His retreat was the lean-to, his small piece of pride affixed to the side of the building, where he’d fashioned a comfortable seat so that he could drink and watch his plants grow. 

A part of him still craved the draw of smoke, the deep inhale into his lungs, the pleasurable sting, but it was better without. 

He was better without a lot of things. 

The sun slowly sank into a glow of pink and purple, tinging green and deep blue, a smattering of crystalline white that flickered into tiny little spots. The constellations were well known, the stories behind them, the planets they contained, their distances apart. He could recite them all. He had sat here for many nights with nothing but a data pad and the sound of crickets as his companion. In summer the knotted poles that supported the roof would sport small orange lizards, their little heads bobbing in unheard rhythm, throats clacking love songs and warnings. In winter an overly friendly little furry thing would curl around his fire pit and try to sneak into the hut for warmth at night. Sometime he let it, especially if a frost or a patter of white fell. The little beast was warm and didn’t demand much space against his side. 

Tonight there were new lights sparkling; a glow of red and blue and yellow as formations spiralled through the night, low drone dull against the nocturnal creatures that were making themselves known. Some sort of military display, no doubt, pomp and circumstance for some trivial celebration. The might of the Empire, or some such. It was beyond him now, far beyond him. Blood splattered white, numb hand, gaping wound that gleamed ivory and blue and wouldn’t stop pumping thick, hot liquid over his arms. It wasn’t his, he couldn’t stop it. Fuel burning his throat as it exploded, flash blinding, scorching away uniform, searing skin. 

He cleared his throat and forced his mind to clear, to retreat and hide. Compartmentalise it all away. Focus on the now. On the owl on the other side of the creek, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. On the sound of fish leaping out of the pond to catch buzzing insects. On the rustle of some mammal slipping carefully through his crops, picking out bugs and leaving tiny footprints in its wake. The smell of earth, of wood and fish, of cool air blowing down from icy mountain ranges many hours away. 

It was a simple life, but it was one he enjoyed. It stabilised, it calmed, it helped.

 

\-----

 

The outpost was overactive, every homestead and scavenger, every shop owner and stallholder, mother and child, thief and hard worker out on the streets, squabbling and bartering, gossiping and bantering. There were new traders in, an enormous influx of new stock. Parts were being snapped up for ridiculously cheap prices. 

He threaded his was through the crowds, keeping a careful hand on the ratty bag at his hip, his eyes and ears focused on the cacophony about him. There was no need for parts, his home was mostly technology free, a personal choice. The hard labour of his hands and back was all he needed now, knees scraped raw, skin peeling under the sun. 

‘No meat today,’ Adala called out to him, and he nodded in acknowledgement. Fortunately that was not what he was after. 

‘All out of balms,’ Qart hollered from five stalls away, spying him through the shifting masses, the weather-beaten man waving his metal cane to attract attention. A nod for him, as well. No need for balms, the sun was not at its worst, and the insects not too troublesome yet. He was after cloth. It had bothered him for a few days, after watching the ships that night, flitting through the stars. The weather would only grow more intense, the plants would wither under the glare of the midday sun, they would need protection. So cloth it would need to be. He’d already fashioned framed out of spare stakes that he had whittled and twine he had purchased. Several metres of thin cloth to allow light but cast shade. Something easy that he could quickly pull down to allow rainfall yet put up in the worst of this planet's summers. 

The stall he was after was at the other end of the small village, through the eddies of sweat and urine and ale. Through charcoal and burning cloves, smoking wood and the ozone of melting metal. He found himself pausing to watch a small man create delicacies out of sugar, surrounded by children and the elderly who marvelled at the creations. A metalsmith caught his eye and he observed the man weld a likeness of a young woman who giggled and batted her eyes, despite the harsh glare of her watching father. A droid bumped into his leg, binary apologises erupting from faulty speakers.

He clutched his bag tighter and moved on, finally locating the stall and purchasing what he needed. The material was tough yet breathable, it would withstand elements and not look to unsightly in the landscape, though that was hardly a luxury he would have allowed himself anyway. It was merely a happy coincidence. He bundled the fabric as best he could, stuffing it into his bag before turning and walking the way he’d come. There was no point skirting the town, the flora was thick and the locals loitering there were not pleasant. So back into the fray he delved, elbows in, head down, eyes forward, frown in place to dissuade any attempts at conversation.

Nerissa attempted to waylay him, battering blonde lashes and dipping her body in a way to enhance her chest. Her hand slipped into the tiny space between his arm and his body, locking herself into his side. There were not many eligible men, he was all too aware, even less available breeding women, yet somehow she had decided that he was for her. 

Because he was self-sufficient, because he was handy. 

The reasons fell from her pretty lips all too easily, yet never the one that was the true cause of her enamourment. She found him to be far more attractive than the other farmers. Where they were born and bred of this earth, he had fallen from the stars in a blaze of fire and ash. His skin was not dark, although he had developed the roughness. His hair was not yet faded from decades in the sun. His habits were not dulled by a monotonous life; his mind sharp, conversation witty when he so desired. She had latched onto his other and refused to release him, despite his protestations and assurances that she was not for him and never would be.

She came home with him, sitting prettily in his seat, watching him set up his shade cloths. 

She would not dirty her feet or her skirts. She was a thing with grand plans and the beauty to possibly pull it off. She kept her skin soft and pale, her hair artfully braided, fashions outdated by half a century, but very accurate. For a backwater brat she was quite impressive. On a political planet she would have been a knife’s edge. Razor sharp and fierce, cutting with her elegance and murderous with her charms. But she was not from there, she was from here. A world of earth and mineral, cratered by asteroids and mined by corporations, deserted and re-inhabited, colonies clinging to the outskirts of abandoned cities. 

She set the table for two as he washed his feet in a pail outside, hands scrubbed clean with porous stone. On the plates were scattered fresh leaves and some of his stew. She talked while they ate, filling his head with inane babble on whimsical facts that were months old and over-exaggerated. She read gossip columns from biased reporters, gushed over the intergalactic merchants that sold fakes. She claimed that her brother had bought a real set of Imperial Major Insignia. He very much doubted it but held his tongue. These people could have their fun. They were his people now, no matter how hard he attempted to keep himself to the outskirts of their lives. 

When she left it was late, the moon a heavy crescent in the sky, a dull shadow besides it’s duller, smaller sister. 

‘Do you have any left?’

He started, turning away from the track that passed as a road. 

Amongst his plants was a shadow, tall and dark, wraithlike as it moved, skin gleaming pale.

‘Any what?’ He asked the phantom cautiously, very aware that he would have to pass it to get back to the safety and light of his home.

‘Stew. It smells wonderful. I haven’t eaten for some time.’ 

‘I suppose I do.’

‘I would be most grateful,’ the phantom said, voice a thunder rumble in the still of the balmy evening. 

He looked down at the hands that had just held Nerissa’s. He clenched his fingers into fists to stop the mild tremor. His nerves he willed to calmness, the roaring in his ears, the prickle of sweat along his forehead and at the back of his neck. A slow steady rhythm beat in his chest, soothing him, grounding him into the now. Into the here. Where a shadow requested refuge and meal from him. They were miles away from anyone or anything, this shadow and he.

Slowly he nodded.

‘Alright,’ he said, and set one foot before the other, trusting his legs to take him down the small track that he had worn, back to his porch and through his door.

The shadow fell in behind him, slipping from the dark and into the light.

‘It’s fish,’ he said, not turning around, deciding instead to focus on rinsing out his only bowl and fill it with the last of his broth. There was no bread because he had nothing to trade for it, but there was some green that he diced and sprinkled over the top. As an afterthought he added another vegetable, the first of the crop, a peace offering to the stranger. A hearty meal, a genuine attempt at graciousness. Perhaps this shadow would soon be a neighbour.

He knew the value of keeping those close to you pleasant.

He turned, bowl outstretched, and faltered.

The shadow was a ghost of eras long gone, ethereal and haunting. Long pale limbs, a pale face, black holes where eyes should have been, dark and deep and eternal. Galaxies seemed to shimmer about his head, nebulas caught in the strands of his hair.

‘You’re dead,’ he said as the ghost took the bowl and sat at the small, wooden table.

‘I was,’ the ghost said amiably. He ate quietly, spoon clinking against the ceramic side, clothes rustling as he moved. The ghost licked his lips and sighed happily, eyes closed with pleasure, cheeks flushed a warm pink. 

‘You were dead.’

‘And so were you.’ The ghost opened his eyes and gave him a rather pointed look. ‘I would never have picked this life for you,’ he said. ‘A ship, perhaps, all metallic and black, spitting reports into your lap every hour.’

‘That life sounds quite dull.’ He plucked the bowl from the ghost’s hands and rinsed it out, leaving it on the shelf to dry. He took the bucket outside and let the water run through his plants, nourishing them with meal scraps. 

‘Come now, G-’

‘Tage, I go by Tage now.’

‘Tage.’ The ghost said the name slowly, sounding it out against his tongue, letting it roll around his mouth until his lips quirked in a soft smile.

‘Farmer Tage, then, quite quaint.’

‘And who are you, now?’

‘A no one.’

‘A bounty hunter?’

‘Yes.’

Tage hummed softly in acceptance, turning his back on the ghost again, crouching down to poke at the embers of his fire, to help it die. It was a warm night, he didn’t need a troubled sleep because of it. It would be troubled enough already, it seemed. 

‘Will you be staying the night?’ He asked, staring at the scorch marks on his only pot. 

‘There’s only one bed.’

‘You’ve become shy, then?’

‘What about the woman?’ The ghost asked. Tage smiled a sad little thing for himself. He straightened, moving towards the bed that was too short for his height, but wide enough to accommodate two. He turned down the top blanket, folding and folding until it was a neat bundle in his arms. They would only need a sheet. The two of them would run too hot, otherwise. 

‘She dreams of grand worlds and grander plans.’

‘Sounds like someone I used to know,’ the ghost said. Tage did not reply. He placed the bundle to the side, on the floor, and stripped himself of his shirt. The ghost hissed in a sharp breath that Tage attempted to ignore. It was symbolic, he had decided, that his wounds were forever behind him, chasing him no matter how far he ran. He climbed into bed and faced the cracked plaster of the wall. After a long pause the plaster dulled and then vanished, the candles about the room being extinguished until the only light came from the dying hearth. 

The bed creaked under the ghost’s weight, sinking as long legs slid under the sheets, a warm torso pressed against his back. Hot breath against his neck. 

‘I won’t be much of an inconvenience,’ the ghost murmured. 

‘Bounty Hunters usually are,’ Tage said. He felt, rather than heard the huff of a laugh, moist air against the baby hairs of his scalp, the broad chest rumbling with amusement. Silence descended comfortably, thickly. 

He drifted through a state of semi-consciousness, all too aware of the other at his back to drift into true sleep. Instead his mind slipped between thoughts, twisting wetly through memories he’d thought long forgotten. The sound of heels clipping through endless gleaming corridors, the heavy weight of wool on his shoulders, the shards of ice that interstellar travel slipped between your bones. The feel of hundreds of eyes upon him, the rustle of quite focus. The deep modulation of an antagonistic voice, the gleam of blood against fresh snow. The smell of eggs cooking in the morning, sulfuric and pleasant, the rasp of butter spread against toast. A soft smile, pleasant, female eyes, weathered and worn yet proud. 

The sob caught somewhere in his throat, suffocating as it wedged itself painfully between his lungs, cutting off his oxygen. 

The sound of voices calling for him, concern thick in the syllables, the sharp clip of obedience waiting for his orders. 

He was shaking strongly enough for it to draw him partially from his own mind, hands trembling, legs jerking under the covers, chest labouring to breathe, to draw in life as sweat beaded over every inch of him.

A woman telling him that she was proud, forever proud, that there was never anything he could do that would take that away from her. The order to fire, bright red, the heat impossibly hot, hotter even than the explosion that was now spiralling through his thoughts, short-circuiting systems into an over active loop of hyper jumps and malfunctioning circuits. The taste of ash on his tongue, iron bright pain in his skull, metal flecked through his flesh. 

An arm, corded thick with muscle, wrapped about his waist, long fingers splayed against his stomach, a soothing gesture that trapped the whimpers within him. 

The feel of water pattering against his hair, dribbling down his torso as he stared at hands two sizes too small, knuckles bruised, blood trapped under his nails. A tooth loose in his jaw, wobbling as he swallowed convulsively, toes nudging the naked boy in the shower tray. Limbs aching, arse stinging, revelations pouring through him, cataloguing the weakness, the need for improvements. Improvements for the vessels, improved aerodynamics, better shielding. Pilot training needed to be implemented earlier. Sense of value to the troops, mundane tasks to help promote camaraderie, loyalty to one another, to him. Black on black, white on black, silver and chrome and red. All for glory, blazing bright across the heavens, blotting out stars and galaxies, inspiring fear and hope and envy.

Hot digits slipped under the waistband of his sleeping pants, wrapping about him gently, tugging insistently until he began to swell and fill, skin prickling in a mixture of self-loathing and pleasure. The sobs in his throat began to spill with his tears. The strong torso of his guest pressed flush against his back, lips soft against his neck, gentle kisses suckling away the sweat of fear. The hand moved steadily, firmly, stroking up and down, building, stoking, heedless of the pitiful crying. He felt his hips buck into the grip, helpless, pathetic, desperate jerks. He panted into the darkness, eyes unseeing as he felt himself come completely apart, mind shattering all the more. Pieces of him snapping away into oblivion, caught in the eddies of release, caught in the wet heat splattered over his torso, in the tears the still fell down his cheeks. 

 

\-----

 

Tage sat under his lean-to and stared out over the shifting greenery of his plants. Rain pattered softly against the roof, raising the pleasant aroma of wet earth and wood. The knife was sharp in his hands, moving with practised ease against the block, carving into it the likeness of his winter friend. It was idle work, but this was an idle day. The rain had been heavy that morning, swelling the edges of his creek, filling his buckets with water for the week. He had awoken alone and dirty, so he had stood naked amongst his plants and let nature cleanse him of his demons. 

Perhaps he had gone to bed alone, as well. Who was to truly say?

A bounty hunter.

Tage sighed and let his head fall back and hands go limp in his lap. 

It was to be expected, for it to end this way. There was only so long one could hide, only so far you could bury yourself in anonymity. 

At least the rain would keep neighbours away, Nerissa away. He could only hope that it would be swift, painless, although that was not what he deserved. The rain would sink his blood into the earth, he would dissolve into his crops and give them nourishing life. The harvest would be plentiful if anyone came along to do the picking. 

‘Do you still have it?’ 

‘Have what?’ He asked, eyes closed against the world. The deep voice of the past sighed.

‘I suppose you wouldn’t, it was a hope, I guess.’

‘There isn’t much of that going around these days.’

‘No, there isn’t,’ the ghost agreed. 

Tage opened his eyes and looked at his guest, crouched on the floor, hands dangling between brown clad thighs. His hair was swept back into a braid, skin a few shades darker than what it had once been, yet still pale. The universe was splayed across his skin, a treasure map that once Tage had wanted to conquer. That had been another time, another life. Now they sat, two broken men in a simple world, watching the rain drip from serrated leaves. 

‘I dream, too,’ the ghost admitted softly. Tage hummed, looking down at the blade in his grasp, at the way it pressed into his arm, not hard enough to cut, but the sting was still there. ‘And then I dreamt of you.’

‘And here you are.’

‘Here I am.’ 

A large black bird dropped between the stalks, head tilting side to side, darting forward with quick precision. A worm wriggled in it’s dark beak before vanishing down the bird’s gullet. A couple of quick hops brought it to its next victim, and then its next.

‘When will it be done?’ Tage couldn’t help but ask.

‘Within the next two days,’ the ghost replied, standing slowly, unfurling long limbs with deadly grace. ‘I don’t want to be too much of an imposition.’

‘You always were.’ 

The two men shared a secret smile that spoke of a past neither wanted to mention. 

‘I bought food from the market. I noticed you had none.’ And then the ghost vanished into the house, leaving Tage with the sounds of meal preparation, dripping rain and a large bird for company.

 

\-----

 

They ate in quiet companionship.

It was odd, eating a meal that he had not prepared. There were spices he hadn’t tasted in many years, meat he could not afford. Bounty hunting appeared to be quite profitable. Far more than farming. And bread, thick crusted, soft and fluffy, covered in seed. Their knees brushed under the table, cutlery clacking against their plates. 

‘How many hours to a day?’

‘Twenty-five.’

‘How many days to a year?’

‘Four hundred and two.’

‘How many days have you been here?’

‘Two thousand and thirty-nine.’ 

‘Over five years,’ the ghost said. 

‘Yes.’

‘That’s a long time.’

‘This is a good meal,’ Tage said, sipping broth from the spoon. Stew’s seemed to be the universal meal, hearty and able to stretch. He chewed on a large piece of meat, savouring the texture, the flavour. It would be a long time before he would be able to eat this again. If ever.

‘I try to prepare meals instead of survive on rations. It’s … it helps me cope.’

Tage washed the dishes and covered the pot, removing it from the hearth so that it could cool and rest until he needed to reheat it tomorrow. The flames flickered to life as he added fresh logs, lapping heat into the chill the rain had brought. A bottle of whiskey was pulled from the bounty hunters bag. Tage brought the only two cups he owned back to the table. 

‘Do you miss it?’ The ghost asked, lips curled around the lip of the mug, nostrils flared at the tang of the alcohol.

‘No.’ There was no hesitation in his answer, no deceit. He had never once missed it. The weight of expectation and responsibility.

A tremor ran through the hand holding the cup. He didn’t attempt to hide it or stop it. The shake would run its course and leave him be eventually. A large, calloused hand covered his, stilling him. Tage looked up, meeting deep brown eyes, fathomless and unending. He swallowed thickly and placed his cup carefully on the table. 

‘You have your own ship?’ He asked, voice steady despite the increased rhythm his heart was beating against his ribs. 

‘Yes,’ the ghost answered softly, gaze intense.

‘Crew?’

‘I work better alone, most of the time.’ 

‘And this time?’

‘I haven’t decided.’ Firelight played against the crevices and planes of his face, stretching shadows and sinking wells into his skin. A monster of light and dark grasping his hand, eyes imploring. 

Tage rose, clearing his throat, uncertain if this course was the right one. But the bounty hunter was here, hand holding his, so perhaps why not? Five long years of living off the land, of being a nobody to everyone. Perhaps for one last time he could be a somebody. Something that mattered for just a moment. After the life he had lived, why not one more vice, one more burst of selfish desire to fuel him through a cool night? 

The bounty hunter rose after a tug, drawing him up to a slightly taller height, forcing Tage to tilt his head back ever so. They considered one another, tracking the changes of life and age, of hardship and sorrow. 

‘She meant a lot to you,’ the voice rumbled, threatening more quakes and flashbacks. The scars rain deeper than tissue, deeper than bone. Ivory and blue and red.

‘Shhh,’ Tage said instead, his hands burning with blood that was not his, mind screaming orders that were not heard or heeded or obeyed. Instead he leant forward and pressed his lips to the past, feeling them part against his, warm and hot and wanting. Strong arms wrapped about his waist as he wrapped his about the neck of his ghost. They pressed against one another, flush and needing, kiss desperate and wet as they slid their tongues together, panting and pleading until Tage felt a steady weight on his hips, pushing him down.

They curled up on the uneven floor, amongst the leaves and dirt and splintered floorboards, legs entwined, arms about one another in a tight embrace. But how he had dreamed of this many times, the feel of desire racing through his veins, swelling in his groin until the tightness of his pants was pleasure/pain, rubbing against the hardness of his ghost, of his past, his bounty hunter come to collect old debts. They rutted like unskilled fools, fully dressed until Tage managed to pull his bruised lips away, staring down at flushed cheeks and dilated eyes, strands of flyaway hair pulled from delicate braids. The space between them filled with thick pants and strings of spit, of a push and pull of want and need and caution. 

They slipped out of their shirts, torn and stained, new and wrinkled. Tage breathed kisses down a torso of rippling muscle, batting away hands that sought to curl in his hair. They grasped onto his biceps instead, imprinting ringlets of red on tanned flesh, drawing him back up so that their lips could meet once more.

There were no sighed declarations of love or names, only moaned acceptance of pleasure, of mutual desire as the ghost work deftly at belts and buckles and zippers, wriggling them out of pants and laced boots and undergarments. 

Flesh against flesh, hot and coarse and smooth. Tage let his head fall back against the floor, surrendering himself to the man that seemed insistent on holding him prisoner. Purple bruises were sucked down his neck and along his collarbone, teeth nipping a trail down the length of his torso. Fingers touched and teased, gliding feather light along over-sensitive skin. Callouses against the pale flesh of his inner thighs, against the only skin of him that was still soft and translucent, still space friendly. 

A strangled gasp escaped his throat as tongue found silken arousal, lips wrapping around him, moist and warm. Tage felt the roof of his ghosts mouth, the back of his throat, squeezing, suckling. He groaned, long and loud, fingers tangling in black tresses, eyes pressed shut, heels digging into the ground. 

With a pop his ghost pulled off, lapping at the underside of Tage’s cock, looking up the length of tanned, squirming flesh. Tage met his gaze unevenly, lids heavy, vision slightly blurry. 

There was a wicked grin on the bounty hunters wet lips. 

The tongue slid out again, licking lower, strong hands parting cheeks to press moisture into Tage’s most private place. His chest stuttered, breath rasping in his throat, eyes closing once more as he allowed himself to be dragged under the waves of his emotions, the crash of pleasure barely disturbed by the sound of crackling fire or the snap of a bottle lid. Cool and thick, slippery, a finger pressed gently into the tight flesh, applying delicious pressure that made him buck helplessly, forcing a heavy arm to be placed over his hips, trapping him down. The groans began to fall, thick and fast. Pleasure and pain intermingled with discomfort and desire. He wanted more, needed more, had to feel full. He bucked again, forcing the finger deeper, second knuckle, all the way, the moan delightful, the small twist of the digit within him toe-curling.

A second finger, working carefully, kindly, kindling and stoking an already raging inferno. Tage could feel his cock bouncing against the flat of his lower abdomen, dribbling precome, heaving and aching with the need for more. 

‘Fuck,’ he finally hissed, the words slipping through gritted teeth, fingers clawing crescent moons into his palms. His ghost pulled back, settling himself between Tage’s thighs, hands smoothing over his body, soothing away the tension, the beginnings of an edgy panic that were tugging at his fraying seams. Those large hands caressed warmth and passion, large torso lowering to press hot lips to his, large cock slipping home.

Both men sighed into one another's mouths, his ghost’s elbows coming to rest on either side of his head, caging him in. And the his ghost began to rock, a slow, deliberate motion that rubbed Tage in all the right ways, pressing and filling and expanding until all he could see and feel were supernova. Hundreds upon thousands of stars exploding through him, burning in their intensity, frightening in their destruction. 

The tears that leaked from the corners of his eyes were not for the past, they were for now, for the beauty of the emotion bursting through his chest, singing through his veins as dark hair brushed against his skin and fingers bit deep in selfish want. 

The thrusts became staccato, urgent and frantic as without any aid Tage came hard, white ropes lacing his torso, smearing against his ghost’s, body quivering, rocking with the slap of skin on skin. He jerked, back rubbing raw on the ground, uncaring as his ghost came undone above him, pumping passion into Tage’s core, fulfilling basic desire and need. They breathed heavily against one another, sweat-slick and come-stained. Wetness dribbled between his thighs as the bounty hunter withdrew and pressed his length against Tage’s side, head propped up, peering down in lazy contentment at his handwork. 

‘Thank you,’ Tage found himself whispering to the room, letting his eyes slip closed so that he could focus on the ebbs of pleasure still zinging through him.

‘I am sorry,’ his past whispered to him, pressing a heavy hand to his sweaty forehead. 

Tage felt an unnatural darkness pull him down into its depths.

 

\-----

 

The sun was burning against his back, as if trying to flay the deep scars from his skin and sear it whole again. Normally he would seek the shelter of his home, but not today. Today he worked himself to exhaustion, picking and weeding and watering, expanding one of the plots with a dulled mattock, tearing up grass and roots so that he could eat. His muscles throbbed, though not nearly as much as his head, as the thoughts within battered to get out. 

The confusion.

The hope.

The discomfort.

‘It wasn’t me?’ He asked the shadow that stood at the opposite end of the garden, holding a bag that looked far too familiar. 

‘No. It would never be you,’ the shadow assured him, hood pulled over his hair, face in darkness, hiding from the sun. 

‘I thought …’

‘I know you did.’ 

‘That’s mine.’ He rested his weight against the worn handle of the mattock, free arm smearing dirt across his forehead as he wiped away the sweat. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘Your neighbour was a bad man.’ 

‘Most men are bad.’ 

‘He was on the worse end of the scale.’

‘I’m on the worse end.’

‘We both are.’ 

The plants between them rustled and swayed in a light breeze that would later bring heavy rain and roaring thunder. For now it was pleasant, calming. 

‘Come with me,’ the bounty hunter said, stepping forward into the channels of earth and roots and life. 

‘Why did he have my bag?’ Tage asked instead. It had fallen with him and been lost. But here it was, on his land, in the hands of his past. 

‘There’s a lot of money in meat. More in men. I would know.’ 

‘He never sighted me. I imagine I am worth more than most.’

‘You are. But his daughter had grander plans.’ Nerissa. Tage sighed, looking down at his day’s labour, at the blisters on his palms, the reddening of his flesh that would tear sharp pain through him with the coming of nightfall. He glanced back at the unassuming bag dangling from a broad shoulder. Without having to see he already knew what was within, the black he had personally dulled, parts that had been once well oiled but would now be slightly gritty and stick. Perhaps he would be able to hunt, get himself some meat, but he would need to clean what was in that bag first. It could possibly lessen the night terrors, the method of dismantling, of prepping, of slotting together components. Military ease. 

His hands trembled at the thought.

‘You can stay, if you like.’ Tage said.

‘I don’t want to be an imposition.’ The bounty hunter said.

Tage picked his way through the rows of vegetables and herbs, treading carefully, toes sinking into the earth. 

‘What do you go by, now?’ Tage asked, coming to a stop in front of his tall companion, peering up into the familiar face of this stranger.

‘I’ve been searching for you to find out,’ the ghost replied.


End file.
